


The Showdown Between Bad and Evil

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Series: A Divine Something [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Almost everybody lives, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blow Jobs, Cockblocking, Coitus Interruptus, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Somewhat established relationship, Swearing, casual blasphemy courtesy of Daryl, literal angel Daryl Dixon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-08-10 10:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20134291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: Daryl is an angel, but that doesn't mean he's especially patient when it comes to finally having sex with Rick. There's little privacy in Alexandria and Daryl hasn't had much chance to be intimate with Rick since that first time in the barn, with the wings reveal and all. But no worries. He's got Plans. The two of them, they're going on a supply run which is most definitely a date, even if nobody calls it that to their faces.Unfortunately, the end of the world has a way to interfere with even the best-laid plans...





	1. Oh Death

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as: A Pissed-off Angel's Guide to (Finally) Getting Laid
> 
> This is a sequel to "A Divine Something" and will not make sense without reading it first.

Michonne’s signature katana is not exactly shaped like a scythe and her eyes aren’t black like the bottomless pit at the end of time, but everything else fits and Daryl’s not even fucking surprised. Riled, just a little, and vaguely terrified because how could he not be, but not surprised. This is exactly the kind of shit he should’ve expected when this shitstorm started. For real, what should surprise him is that they waited this long to show up.

“Death,” he greets with all the respect he can muster at three in the morning while trying to skin a rabbit on the porch of his family’s house in Alexandria, Virginia. He pauses in the gruesome work, wipes off some sweat from his forehead and thinks, _ their house_. It’s his too. He’ll never get used to it, to being part of a real family, to being welcome somewhere so fully. To belonging somewhere. With someone. With Rick.

“Daryl,” Death acknowledges. She’s using Michonne’s vocal cords, but the voice sounds nothing like Michonne at all. It sounds like thousands of years in the abyss, hollow and void of anything that ever lived. Or, Daryl supposes, like someone talking way too loud in a very spacious, very empty room, but this description is less poetic and he feels like Death wouldn’t appreciate it very much. She likes her pathos and poetry. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of yer company?” He asks, resuming his task. Next to him, on the right hand side, he’s got a whole pile of dead critters to prepare to be smoked in the morning. Winter is fast approaching and it’s never too early to start preparing for leaner times. Virginia is colder than Georgia, less game in the woods when there’s actual snow out there. Daryl won’t be caught unawares. He’s got his family to support.

“The end of times,” Death says, and Daryl scoffs.

To be completely, absolutely fucking honest, Daryl really, really strongly and vehemently doesn’t care about the end of the world. Like, at all. He’s aware that something in him must be inherently broken since his celestial siblings are all aflutter about the whole ordeal, pun very much intended, while he’s totally _ meh _about it all. Like, completely Zen. Chill. Whatever. Yeah, so he’s mighty pissed off about the dead ones walking and eating people because that? Bad fucking taste. Seriously, about seventy seven percent of his completely justified anger about the whole thing has to do with the needless additional danger to his ward and, by association, his extended family who are all kinda real good at getting into life-threatening situations even without any supernatural help. Especially his Rick, though, the son of a bitch literal fucking nightmare. He’s also about ten percent angry on behalf of the rest of humanity who got their lives this messed up for nothing but some motherfucker’s kicks and giggles. The remaining thirteen percent is all about the way the dead ones are ugly, disgusting and ruin the ambiance of any place they tend to roam. Still, other than the walkers and the associated degeneration of humanity as a social species, he doesn’t mind either way if it’s the end of the world or not. He’s got bigger problems on his mind than some crook’s fake version of the apocalypse. Truthfully, it’s actually a little easier to keep a danger-loving fuck like Rick alive when the world’s gone to shit. Minimally. Infinitesimally. Because he’s allowed to off any motherfucker who so much as breathes funny in the presence of his ward, as opposed to Before when he had to be very diplomatic about this sort of thing. 

But, yeah. Daryl just truly doesn’t care.

“Ya know it ain’t real,” he mutters, throwing the skinned carcass of the rabbit on the smaller _ already gutted _pile to his left. He doesn’t look up. “Anyone else, they ain’t no wiser, but you? Outta all’em up there, ya musta known.”

Death hums and touches his hair with Michonne’s warm hand. Daryl doesn’t flinch even though the fingers stroking his scalp feel more like claws, or maybe like the cold scrape of bone on flesh. It’s an illusion, of course. Her body temperature ain’t no different than when it’s Michonne in control. 

“I know,” she says.

“An’ watcha gonna do ‘bout it?” Daryl asks. He knows he sounds rather confrontational for someone Death could destroy with a mere flick of her hand, without even thinking much about him at all while tearing him to pieces. Apparently, having had his cock sucked once made him unnecessarily bold… no, fuck, that’s _ not _ what he should be thinking about right now, not at all. Not in front of a being who knows his every passing thought.

“_ I _will do nothing, young one,” Death says very pointedly. She smiles when Daryl looks up to glare at her just a little.

“Uh-huh,” he grumbles. “Meanin' what, exactly? Ya gotta be real precise here.”

“Only an angel possessed of true free will can stop the Apocalypse,” Death explains and it sounds like a prophecy. Or even like a Prophecy. 

Daryl blinks, then: “Fuck,” he concludes. He supposes he's the only one, then.

“Yes,” Death agrees, patting his head with something that might even be somewhat reminiscent of sympathy. “It may console you, however, that you will not be alone in your quest, young one. I have touched those whom you love most dearly. They will not be tempted by my embrace for as long as they are loyal to you. They will accompany you and together, you will stop this silly ordeal before it transforms into something irreversible.”

“Ain’t got no choice, huh?” Daryl asks resignedly. “Gotta do this, ain’t matter that I got like, plans an’ all.”

“I expect the date with your ward in the morning can stand to be postponed until such a time when the end of times is no longer imminent,” Death says. Her tone is dismissive. She clearly doesn’t get it.

Daryl scowls. “’s not a date, ’s called a _ supply run _an’ ‘s important. Many lives depend on it,” he hisses, lying through his teeth. It's totally a date, even though neither he nor Rick actually used the word out loud when making the plans. 

“What exactly do you suppose will happen to those lives when the Earth becomes the bloody battlefield for the armies of Heaven and Hell?” Death asks conversationally. She’s still gently stroking Daryl’s hair. It’s annoying. She’s officially been playing with Daryl’s hair longer than Rick by now. It’s even more frustrating because Daryl loves having his hair touched like this. He’s sure he’d love it immensely more if it was Rick doing the touching, not a celestial sibling who’s really more of an ageless abstract concept given shape to be easier to understand for lesser beings. Rick’s hands don’t feel like claws.

Daryl scowls, squinting up at Death with a bit of contempt. “Whatcha know 'bout this mess, anyway?”

For a moment, Death doesn't speak. When she does, it's distant, like she's no longer fully in possession of the vessel she's inhabiting. Means Michonne is waking up. Unlike real angels, Death needs no permission from the humans she uses as her hosts. Any state similar to being dead is enough of an invitation for her, and she considers sleep to be a sort of a trial version of being dead.

She says, “There is a demon, closer than you think. Search for him or he will find you,” and then nothing more which - not helpful at all. But that's Death. She likes to play mysterious even though in fact, there is no simpler entity in the universe. It's everything else that's complicated, it’s _ life _ that’s complicated. Daryl wouldn't say that to Death’s face, though. He's in no hurry to find out if dying hurts when you're an angel in a somewhat mortal vessel that’s actually an integral part of him due to a fuck-up Upstairs. If anything is capable of making him die, it’s surely going to be at the behest of Death herself.

He can tell the exact moment Death leaves and Michonne takes back control over her body: the night air warms up instantly and he feels tension he wasn't even aware of leaving his muscles in waves. Michonne blinks at him and withdraws her hand from Daryl's hair, startled to see him and definitely confused as she looks around to gather her surroundings.

“Was I sleepwalking?” She asks.

Daryl shrugs. “Prob'ly. No worries though, ain't gonna say anythin' to the others,” he promises in reassurance.

“Did I say anything embarrassing?” Michonne asks, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“Nah. Ain't talked at all. Kept pullin' my hair though,” Daryl informs her. It's mostly true. _ She _ wasn't doing any talking, it was all Death.

“Oh-kay... You know what? I'll just go back to my room,” Michonne decides. She pauses a moment, looks at the pile of dead things and the other pile of skinned things, and shakes her head. “You're a freak, Daryl. Seriously. I love you, but you're a weird cookie,” she mutters and heads back to the house, grumbling to herself.

_ Weird, huh_, Daryl thinks. Good old Michonne. She really has no idea.

Daryl finishes his gruesome task in the quiet hours before dawn and goes upstairs for a shower because it would be rude to show up at the breakfast table covered head to toe in blood and guts. Under the hot stream of water, he lets out a little mournful sigh as he thinks about the date - the supply run - with Rick, which will probably have to be postponed now that he has a Very Important Quest. He was so looking forward to going, too! Not because of the danger involved in taking Rick beyond the walls, no, if it was Daryl's choice, he'd keep the goddamn suicidal nightmare of a man in the house all the time. Preferably in his arms. Naked. Possibly in a warm, comfortable bed, but he’s not picky.

But their entire extended family have no concept of privacy for shit.

After that fateful day when circumstances forced Daryl to reveal his wings to Rick which in turn led to Daryl getting his first - and absolutely life-defining - blowjob, they tried to sneak in some intimacy just after returning to Alexandria. A tiny bit. Some making out in Rick's bedroom, nothing too bold. But a man of Rick's standing in the community can’t just get a little time-out because everyone and everything seems to depend on his availability; and apparently the world is going to _ fucking _ crumble if Rick ever diverts his attention from the well-being of the community to the well-being of his horny guardian angel. Pun not intended.

It's been three weeks. Daryl has the patience of a saint when necessary, but this is getting ridiculous, and now there's this entire _ preventing the end of the world _ business threatening to cock-block him for an inordinate amount of time. Demons, for fucks sake. That's precisely what he needed to make his life better: fucking demons and their fucking self-serving agendas. There is literally nobody who ever benefits from anything demons do. Not the Upstairs, not the Downstairs. Not the respective Rulers of either of these places, wherever _ those _ Guys are, because They sure as fuck aren’t in Their very chaotic kingdoms. Nobody ever benefits but the son-of-a-bitch who starts shit for kicks and giggles. 

If there's really a demon involved, means the whole thing's bound to go to shit. More than it already has, that is. Doesn't really spell many opportunities for sexy times involving Daryl and his Rick in the foreseeable future.

It's a goddamn fucking tragedy.

Now, it's not really in the nature of an angel to think about getting laid. He certainly didn't use to think about it much before his two halves merged and he met Rick, _ really met him_, for the first time. Daryl-the-angel was as asexual as a fucking rock at the bottom of the ocean, with no concept of gender or the associated urges at all. Daryl Dixon wasn't much better off, partially because he wasn't really human at all, just an angel spirit in a human body, and so the ideas foreign to angels were foreign to him as well which made him rather confused and mostly unhappy in human society; the other part of it came from the fact that his backwoods upbringing didn’t really prove supportive when he started having flashes of a blue-eyed, handsome young man in various everyday situations, a young man he very clearly _ loved _ even though he didn’t know shit about him, never even _ met him _, and he had his decade-long gay panic before it started making sense. And then the two halves accidentally became one and everything changed, but of course it did, it had to since it was all about Rick fucking Grimes. Certainly, even the holiest goddamn angel couldn't resist the intensity of the man's pretty blue eyes. Daryl's far off from the holiest goddamn angel. He's probably the least holy angel ever, what with the casual blasphemy every other day, the general lack of reverence for all that sanctimonious heavenly bullshit and, of course, the particularly sinful thoughts he has about his unbearably frustrating ward.

_ An angel with free will_, Death called him. Yeah, he's got that going on. An unexpected side effect of his split personality back then, a special little treat all humans have which persisted in Daryl once his spirit unified again. It's what kept him from following the homing beacon when all the other guardian angels dropped their duties and abandoned their charges like some fucking trash. Made him talk back all bold and offensive when some of the winged pricks tried to convince him to return Upstairs by using Merle as their damn angel radio. And free will, well, he supposes it's what ultimately led to him getting that blowjob.

Daryl chuckles to himself, a little bit of humor returning to his thoughts. Free will's the stuff angels covet like nothing else because it's something they could never have, with a few notable exceptions throughout history which now inexplicably seem to include himself. And what does Daryl do with the gift he was so unexpectedly given? Hah. Gay sex is what he does. Or at least plans to, with great enthusiasm. With the man whose life is the most precious to him of all creation in all known and unknown universes. The man he was charged with protecting, the man who is the center of his existence. His Rick Grimes.

Some guardian angels he knew could move on after their wards' passing. A few even got a new ward to protect, after their original wards passed away to… well, wherever mortals go when they die; supposedly it’s a better place, but nobody ever explained that to him and angels don’t die, so they have no idea what it’s all about. But some moved on and Daryl can't imagine it, can't imagine existing beyond what he holds so dear. He was nothing before Rick, he has no memories of a time he didn’t guard the soul now inhabiting that bow-legged, lean body. He knows he will be back to nothing again if Rick is taken away from him. So he won't let that happen, even if the combined forces of Heaven and Hell stand in his way. This is also because of this stupid free will thing, by the way. He chooses to fight everything and everyone who threatens Rick because he loves him, damn the consequences.

Fuck, he loves Rick so much. What a fucking mess he is. What a ridiculous excuse for an angel.

He finishes the shower, disgruntled and infinitely dissatisfied with the direction his thoughts have taken. It's all Death's fault. This could’ve been such a good morning if she didn’t interfere, spouting all this _ chosen one _ bullshit. Now Daryl can’t even look forward to the rest of the day because there are Expectations. Who in their right mind would go around having those of the only angel - out of literal _ millions _ \- that decided to defy what was expected of him in the first place, Daryl doesn’t ponder. Instead, he starts getting dressed, too immersed in his gloomy musings to hear the knock on the door.

He does hear the soft and warm, “Good morning, my angel,” though. He feels it, too, whispered against his skin as Rick’s beard scratches on his shoulder where the man presses his lips. Daryl’s kinda glad he didn’t hurry getting dressed and he’s still shirtless; he loves the feeling of Rick’s beard on him. Anywhere. Rick could rub his beard all over Daryl’s body and he’d love it so much he would probably embarrass himself thoroughly as a result. 

Then, warm arms embrace him from behind and Daryl leans into their safety. It’s so good, so _ fucking _good, it almost makes him forget about his unpleasant nightly encounter. Almost. He sighs, a low, barely audible exhale of breath. 

“Can’t go for the run t’day,” he mutters, letting his body relax into Rick’s welcoming heat anyway because it’s impossible to resist. 

“Of course we can,” Rick informs him firmly and kisses him on the nape of the neck, and yeah, his beard is like a fucking miracle, alright. Daryl won’t ever let him shave again even if he has to break his arms. Though that would be a shame; Rick couldn’t exactly touch him with those clever fingers if his arms were broken. So maybe not. Maybe Daryl’s heartfelt pleas will be enough to stay his hand, if he ever raises a razor to his beard again.

Rick nips lightly at the juncture between Daryl’s shoulder and neck. He asks to make sure, “Unless you don’t want to be alone with me?”

“‘s not that,” Daryl assures, shaking his head because there’s quite obviously nothing in this world or any other for that matter that he’d like better than to be all alone with Rick somewhere nobody would disturb them. That Rick would even suggest otherwise means he doesn’t know Daryl as well as he thinks. Or he’s teasing. Sometimes, Daryl can’t tell, especially when Rick’s being subtle.

“Mmm,” Rick hums softly against his skin. “What’s it, then? Why can’t we go, darlin’?”

Well if Rick’s going to call him pet names, it’s going to become a moot point because Daryl won’t be able to tell him no. End of the world be damned. 

“Got visited by a sibling, kinda,” he mumbles. “Older sibling. The oldest. Ain’t gets no older ‘n her, really. She kinda said I gotta cancel this Apocalypse thing ‘cause am the only one who can.”

“Alright,” Rick agrees, “but can’t you do it later? There’s sort of a queue for your attention. I’m first in line, and Daryl, I need you today. Very much.”

He demonstrates how much exactly by grinding his hips into Daryl’s denim-clad backside, and yeah, Daryl can see his point. Feel it, even. Very, very prominently. It’s a very prominent point. Daryl wants it inside of him as soon as possible. Prominently.

“She said it gotta be now,” he says, but already his resolve is faltering. Can one day’s delay really change shit? The world’s ended a couple years ago. If time was of such essence, why didn’t Death come bother him earlier, when Daryl’s schedule was completely free? Unless this is some cosmic shit, like karma or something. Maybe he’s being punished for his rebellion. Probably. Definitely.

“How about we go on our run, as we planned, and then we try and do whatever it is you gotta do? You know, your angel stuff?” Rick suggests, smiling into the skin of Daryl’s back. 

And yeah, it sounds reasonable. It’s not like he has any concrete plans when it comes to the actual stopping of the Apocalypse. He just knows he has to find a demon. That’s not enough to go on. He’s a simple guardian angel, not a heavenly sentinel nor an abomination hunter. He can’t track demons for shit, he’s not even sure he could sense one if it gave him a lap dance. That’s what the Above has highly specialized forces for, with their own brand of, well, magic, to help them detect malevolent intentions of the demonic frequency. It’s very different from regular human malice, but virtually indistinguishable for regular angels no matter how sensitive they are to Evil. Daryl, he’s not sensitive to Evil at all. He’s like, dense as fuck. The kind of Evil that can’t be seen goes right past him real easy. 

But he’s got Rick, and generally Rick’s a good judge of character. They can do this together. Later, though. First, the supply run, because Daryl has no choice in the matter: he lets himself be convinced all through the sheer near-divine power of Rick’s talented fingers running across his back and Rick’s incredibly persuasive tongue following the trails mapped by the fingers. He’s powerless against arguments like that. 

Death will just have to wait a little longer. It’s not like she’s going anywhere.


	2. So Close

Daryl and Rick eventually take off for their date… their  _ supply run, _ later that morning. They take one of the trucks, the one with the least amount of fuel; Daryl revealed to Rick a few days ago that he can actually make the engine run on fumes for an extended amount of time through the power of miracles or something. Angelic intervention. Whatever. Anyway, it’s good because they don’t need to waste valuable resources. Daryl knows his troublesome ward better than anyone else, and he’s pretty sure Rick would just feel guilty for using precious fuel for his own leisure activities.

Daryl might be the angel, but out of the two of them, Rick’s the seriously Good Guy.

“So, Death,” Rick says in the car. His eyes are on the road because he’s a responsible driver, but one of his hands is on Daryl’s thigh because he’s a human nightmare.

“What about her?” Daryl asks, attempting valiantly to concentrate on anything that isn’t the warmth of Rick’s palm so close to his crotch. It’s not easy; Rick doesn’t simply keep his hand on Daryl’s thigh, he rubs tiny circles there with its palm, inching closer and closer to where Daryl both wants and doesn’t want it to go. 

“Hmmm,” Rick hums. “I was wondering, what’s she like? Most people don’t meet Death ‘till it’s their time to go. Can’t begrudge me some curiosity.”

“Ya met her before though,” Daryl mutters and exhales with an audible hiss when that teasing hand brushes in the most fluttery manner against the front of his jeans before it returns to its initial position above his knee. If he could smite someone with righteous vengeance, Rick would be very thoroughly smitten right now. In the literal sense of the word, not the figurative one. 

“I’d remember meeting Death,” Rick says. He’s smirking in a very self-satisfied way as he squeezes Daryl’s leg in an almost brotherly fashion. Then, without ever taking his eyes off the road ahead, he deliberately moves the hand up and slips it between Daryl’s thighs to cup the prominent bulge tenting Daryl’s jeans.

“Coma,” Daryl grunts through a hiss and squeezes his eyes shut even as his mouth falls open when Rick demonstrates he’s not done by massaging his handful, slowly, gently pressing down. Daryl’s cock responds by straining against the denim of his jeans, reacting to the teasing caress like a touch-hungry cat. 

“You fuckin’ bastard,” Daryl groans, forgetting all about Death and comas and interesting first meetings, and he grabs the man’s wrist with both hands. “You wanna touch me, you fuckin’ pull over afore ya drive us into a damn wall of walkers.”

“What is it, baby, do you think you can’t guard me well if I distract you?” Rick asks and licks his lips. He doesn’t try to free his arm from Daryl’s death grip, though. He’s very calm, given the circumstances. Daryl’s bad at being calm where Rick Grimes is concerned.

“Stop teasin’ or next time yer in danger I’mma let ya die jus’ so you fuckin’ learn,” Daryl threatens in a hiss through gritted teeth.

Rick just chuckles and continues to drive. More than that, he starts whistling a happy tune which reminds Daryl vaguely of one of the songs Carl’s been teaching Judith of late. Just vaguely, because Rick is horrible at keeping to the melody. He might be tone-deaf. Alternatively, he might be doing it on purpose, but Daryl doubts it. He really, sincerely doubts it. He’s heard Rick sing in showers since the man was old enough to take a shower by himself.

Nobody’s that great of an actor.

They arrive at a small suburban neighborhood somewhere to the south-west of DC. Amazingly, the entire development hasn’t been looted yet; the houses look pristine, untouched by the ongoing end of the world situation, and there are no walkers in the area that either of them can spot. One can almost expect a happy couple with a baby stroller to round the corner at any second, a dog on their heel and a child running behind them with a red ball. Of course, it’s not going to happen. Daryl doesn’t sense a single living creature in the neighborhood, not even a stray possum.

It almost seems like too perfect a place for a date… a supply run. But Daryl’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The much-needed privacy calls to him. And even if the development seems a little suspicious, well. He knows he can protect Rick from anything that might be lurking there. He’s got it.

Rick hums in appreciation in the first house they enter. It’s not very unlike the place in Alexandria they’re calling their home, though it doesn’t look like it’s been lived in for the last few years. There is a thick layer of dust on every surface and the air smells musty, a distinctly wet sort of smell that seems to point to the presence of mold in the walls. But the kitchen turns out to be well supplied with canned goods and there are plastic packets of rice, couscous, top brand pasta and other non-perishables, most of which are fully intact. Daryl packs everything into his duffel bag, glad as always for its properties that defy the laws of physics binding this world. It’s another small bit of what people would call magic, besides the fuel thing, that he allows himself in everyday life to make stuff easier. He couldn’t count the times he brought back insane amounts of supplies from a run that would’ve required at least three cars if he didn’t have this convenient little cheat. It helped him fill his family’s bellies for a long while and, to be honest, there isn’t much Daryl wouldn’t do for his chosen mortal family.

Anyway, it’s not like there are any rules left saying he’s not allowed to cheat like that.

“Would you look at this,” Rick calls joyfully from upstairs where he’s checking out the rooms. Daryl joins him in what appears to be the master bedroom, and he frowns when Rick shows him a peculiar sort of collection the previous inhabitants of the house had left in one of the bedside drawers.

There are six different types of lube in nice, colorful bottles, all of them still sealed and none of them expired. There’s the tingling kind and the plain scented kind, and some of them seem to be more heavy duty than others. Without thinking, Daryl deposits all the bottles in the bag and pretends he’s not blushing when he leaves one out on top of the bedside table. Rick smirks knowingly and brushes a gentle hand through the hair at the nape of Daryl’s neck. The caress is fleeting, but the intent behind it is clear:

That bottle will definitely come in handy today.

Besides the lube, there are countless condoms in the drawer. Most are still good to be used, so they go in the bag, too. Daryl has no use for those; while his body retains some mortal properties, he’s still an angel which grants him an immunity to any disease and makes it impossible for him to be a carrier either, never mind that he’s a virgin and therefore he hasn’t had a chance to catch anything weird before. But condoms will be very welcome back home. Not everyone is ready to face the threat of the apocalypse with a belly full of baby, or a squalling infant on their back. Daryl doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t feel the same. He  _ adores _ babies, he could spend hours talking at baby Judith and never get bored despite her lack of basic communication skills, and he really didn’t have any problem extending his peaceful angelic aura over her on the road so she never cried and attracted walkers; but he can appreciate that some things are much more difficult to do when you’re a mortal being stranded in this fucked up version of the end of the world. 

Under the packets of condoms, Rick finds a pair of handcuffs which he pockets with a very wicked grin directed at Daryl. This time, Daryl can’t even pretend he’s not blushing because he can very well feel the warmth travelling from his face and ears and spreading down to his chest. Oh, he doesn’t even need to guess what use Rick is planning for the handcuffs. He’s watched the man throughout his entire life. He’s well aware of Rick’s various fantasies. Definitely knows more about them than Lori ever found out in their shared bedroom.

Admittedly, the memory of Rick discovering gay porn for the first time is somewhat awkward even though it didn’t feel awkward back when it was happening; angel-Daryl didn’t really use to get bothered by the strange things his ward did, sexual or otherwise. It’s the Daryl Dixon part of him that flushes an even darker shade of red as he remembers how exactly Rick knows what to do with a man’s cock in his mouth. 

So. Yeah. There were multiple cucumbers involved in the learning process. And a zucchini. Also a rather unfortunate eggplant, on one notable occasion that should probably remain forgotten by all parties. Rick might be repressing that memory, but he still hates eggplant to this day, if his reaction to Glenn offering eggplant seeds he found somewhere on a supply run for his farm back at the prison was any indication. He may have forgotten, but he’s not likely to ever forgive.

Regardless of all that, Daryl is a responsible angel and he knows his priorities on a supply run like this, so he just gives Rick a look which he hopes accurately conveys his excitement at the prospect of using those handcuffs - and he heads back downstairs to finish his assessment of the goods in the house as soon as he possibly can without the use of celestial powers. There are always things a community as big as Alexandria needs. Toilet paper, for one, which unfortunately doesn’t seem to be in abundance in this particular house. Tampons, though the women assured him they still have a lot after that run when Daryl got his blowjob. Also paper towels, regular cloth towels, plates and kitchen utensils, containers. Underwear, too, though Daryl doesn’t understand why it’s so sought after. He hasn’t worn any since the fake-ass apocalypse began and he doesn’t really miss it. He’s more comfortable without. Not that he’s about to go about convincing anyone of the superiority of his ways. He just grabs any and all usable underwear in the house and packs it neatly into the bag along with everything else. He’s a bit surprised it’s not all moth-eaten, but to hell with it, he’s not going to complain.

Finally, everything that Daryl deems even relatively useful finds its way to his bag and he returns upstairs to assist Rick in his scavenging. Only, it seems Rick’s not very interested in scavenging at all because he’s still in the master bedroom, sitting on the bed, shirtless, without his boots and socks. 

“I was starting to worry,” he says, clicking his tongue in admonishment.

“Thought this was a supply run,” Daryl mutters and points to his bag. “Was gatherin’ supplies.”

“Supplies can wait,” Rick decides, frowning. “I wanna see those pretty wings of yours. This room big enough? Will you be comfortable?”

Daryl puts the bag at the foot of the bed and looks around. The bedroom is easily the biggest room in the house and the distance between the walls seems to be enough so that his wings shouldn’t be squished. Daryl wishes he could make them a bit smaller, but it’s not like he has any control over it. If anything, he noticed they get bigger when he’s angry or desperate, but nothing seems to make them any more manage-ably smaller. Oh well. Maybe they won’t fit comfortably in the available space, but even if the discomfort were actually significant, it’s going to be worth it for Rick. 

Nodding, Daryl slowly removes his leather vest which he places neatly at the bottom of the bed. He hesitates before unbuttoning and taking off his shirt, too. He carefully avoids looking at Rick because he’d only succeed in making himself awkward. He can almost feel the man’s eyes on him all the same, his gaze hot and full of intent. He’s used to watching Rick, following him everywhere with his protective gaze, seeing him even when he’s not physically present in his ward’s vicinity; but being looked at, so completely exposed, it’s different and strange, and it strikes against Daryl’s very nature: as a guardian angel, he was never supposed to be seen or sensed, his role was to be there and remain invisible as he protected Rick Grimes from any danger he might’ve gotten himself into. 

Now, Daryl’s the one being observed and it feels wrong, somehow, grating against his very nature even as it makes him flush redder and feel warmth pooling down in his groin. Rick’s eyes are dark with arousal, intense as they follow the movement of Daryl’s hands when he strips, and it’s so incredibly distracting Daryl can’t concentrate on anything but doing exactly as this awful, wonderful man demands of him.

Looking at Rick, Daryl allows his wings to unfurl and solidify into the material plain of existence, large and heavy, brighter than anything this dark and grimy world has seen in a long time. Daryl instantly loves the way Rick’s eyes widen at the sight and the pleasure etched clearly on Rick’s face; it’s the kind of a deep satisfaction building up from his chest, threatening to expand and overwhelm him, and the worst of it is: he’s not sure it would be such a bad thing to be overwhelmed. 

“God, darlin’, you’re so beautiful,” Rick says in a low voice which sounds almost like a purr. It’s blasphemous, the reverence in his tone and the worship in his gaze, and Daryl isn’t worthy of all of this, but he will take it with greedy hands.

He takes a tentative step towards the bed and sees Rick nod in approval. It emboldens him enough that he crosses the short distance through the room and steps between Rick’s parted legs, sighing in contentment when the man’s arms immediately wrap around his waist. For a brief moment, they remain like this, with Rick holding Daryl close and pressing tiny kisses to his abdomen, before Daryl sinks to his knees in front of Rick and reaches for the man’s belt with trembling hands. 

“Need to touch ya,” he mutters, trying to justify his eagerness without embarrassing himself further, but Rick looks down at him with heavy-lidded eyes completely devoid of ridicule. Words aren’t required between them for the next few moments. Daryl fumbles clumsily with the button and zipper of Rick’s jeans while Rick buries his fingers in the soft feathers at the base of Daryl’s wings. When those clever fingers begin massaging the hard muscle there, Daryl’s pretty sure the tips of the wings are twitching in pleasure which is so powerful, his brain threatens to short-circuit. For a second there, he loses himself to the sensation, drowns in it until there is nothing but Rick’s touch on his wings - but then he remembers what he’s been doing and, with a guttural groan, he pulls down Rick’s jeans along with the underwear. Rick helps by standing up for the instance it takes to push the garments out of the way and then waits patiently as Daryl removes them altogether before kneeling between Rick’s legs again. 

“Daryl, my God,” the man sighs and shivers, and Daryl growls in displeasure.

“Stop callin’ His name,” he demands harshly, “only mine,” and he bows his head to nuzzle his cheek against Rick’s inner thigh, careful not to touch the man’s erection just yet. He looks at it instead, licking his lips. 

Back when he was an incorporeal being following Rick around all the time, he didn’t understand the concept of nakedness very well. He knew the mortals would wear layers of fabrics to cover their physical forms, but he didn’t see the point of that. He saw Rick in clothes and out of them every day of the man’s life, and it held no meaning to him whatsoever. That is, until his two halves converged; the Daryl Dixon half somehow enlightened the angel half in terms of the importance of clothing, and the newly-whole Daryl was so mortified by the emerging memories of Rick’s nudity, he couldn’t look the man in the face for three entire days.

Right now, though, he kind of wishes mortals never wore clothes because Rick Grimes is  _ glorious _ like this. His cock is long and thick, standing proudly against his belly, and just looking at it makes Daryl’s mouth water. His own body is reacting to the sight in front of him; his jeans are tenting at the front and his heart is beating too fast, so fast he’d be worried about getting a heart attack and dying if he wasn’t immortal.

“May I,” he croaks out, words barely recognizable with how dry his throat is suddenly. He clears it and tries again, “May I taste ya?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Rick breathes out and then lets out a shuddering gasp when Daryl leans in, bowing his head, and touches the tip of the man’s cock with his lips. He wraps a hand around the base of it to hold it still and parts his lips to slide his mouth down Rick’s length. 

He’s vaguely aware of Rick’s moan, but it’s somewhere in the peripheries of his awareness because all of his senses sort of shut down when he gets to taste Rick again, like he’s wanted to since that first time when he didn’t get the chance to touch. It’s just a hint of the heedy flavour from back then, but it’s enough to make him moan deep in his throat, and the vibration it causes makes Rick buck his hips up, forcing more of his cock into Daryl’s mouth. 

And while Daryl is hungry for it, he’s also completely new to this, so he chokes and has to back off, coughing, eyes watering. 

“Sorry,” Rick mutters softly. 

Daryl licks his lips and looks up at him shyly. “Ain’t nothin’,” he says, “just let me try again. ‘m gonna get it right this time.”

“You’re doing great, baby,” Rick promises him and lifts a hand from among Daryl’s feathers to stroke his cheek, brushing away a trail of saliva from the corner of his mouth. 

Daryl closes his eyes against the caress, marveling at how such a simple form of touch can make him feel all tingly and good. He shivers and his wings flutter, a strange sense of anxiety and nervousness filling him from Rick’s touch-

No,  _ fuck _ , this ain’t right.

Eyes widening, Daryl whirls around, wings spreading to cover Rick from sight in a surge of protectiveness as he faces the intruder sitting in the window, staring at the two of them with a grin, seemingly unperturbed by the sight of what he so rudely interrupted. 

The stranger is a man with long hair and a pretty face, with rather glassy blue eyes, obviously not half as striking as Rick’s. What’s strange is that he’s wearing a lab coat over his leather duster, but then again, Daryl realizes without much surprise, it’s not that strange.  There are Four, aren’t there? Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. It’s a whole shtick. One of them already made it her business to talk to him, so it’s no wonder the others are following suit. And the lab coat? Well.  _ He _ is a scientist, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not be able to update this story very regularly because I'm in the finishing stages of decorating my new apartment and then there's going to be a move soon... You know how it is.
> 
> BUT! I will try to post new chapters at least once a week. 
> 
> Addtionally, "The Shark Heart" might be making a comeback soon. I edited the first two chapters some, and I came up with new ideas where I want the story to go, so who knows. I might repost it sooner rather than later ;)


	3. Like the Plague

“Oh come on, little brother,” the stranger with the familiar, powerful presence says, grinning even wider than before, his voice reverberating in the master bedroom like it belongs to multiple people speaking at once instead of just one, rather short man. He looks straight at Daryl, but it feels almost like he’s looking through him. Like he doesn’t see Daryl as he is, but what’s inside of him, the cells his body is made out of, the spirit which resides within. 

“What you were doing, why don’t you carry on? You needn’t stop on my account!”

“Pestilence,” Daryl bites out, barely containing his ire. Of course. Of course they can’t  _ fucking _ leave him alone for five minutes. “Death done sent ya?”

Pestilence snorts inelegantly, rolling his eyes - his vessel’s eyes, technically, but whatever, technicalities are the last thing on Daryl’s mind right now. “Like Hell can she send me anywhere. I’m The Scientist. I’m not doing anyone’s bidding. If anything,  _ I’m _ the one sending  _ her  _ places.”

“Daryl?...” Rick asks from behind the bright and wide wings obscuring him from sight. The last thing Daryl wants is for his suicidal ward to be on display when he’s naked. The view belongs to him, and to him  _ only _ . 

“Hey. That a sibling of yours? You gonna introduce me or what?”

“See? Your pet mortal is way more polite than you,” Pestilence admonishes, smirking. The young man he’s using as his meatsuit has the same self-satisfied smirk Daryl associates with the Scientist of the Horsemen, and it’s funny because he’s never actually met Pestilence in person before. Like everyone, he just heard stories about him and his weird-ass experiments, the grand achievements in the Middle Ages, the sort of nightmarish shit that sometimes rivalled the Downstairs in the way it brought torment to humanity. It’s sort of hard to fathom that Pestilence is actually one of the so-called Good Guys. 

That’s because just like Death, he’s not malevolent. Just… curious.

“Rick’s not a pet. Don’cha call him that,” Daryl hisses, and if he could wrap Rick protectively within a cocoon of his wings, he would. But Rick wouldn’t appreciate that. He doesn’t like being helpless and he always underestimates his opponents. Daryl had to step in many times because Rick incorrectly assessed the situation and almost got himself killed. And that’s just in the last month.

“The fuck ya doin’ here anyway?” He bites out at Pestilence instead, and he makes sure to give him the most impressive glare from his arsenal.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Pestilence admits and smiles pleasantly, almost looking sheepish. “Both of you. For years, I suppose. I made this place for you.”

Daryl frowns. “And the fuck does that mean?” 

“It means that I made sure nobody else but you two could ever find this building complex. I wanted a place where I could talk to you, so I set up a barrier which would deter anybody else from coming.”

“... Ya mean kill ‘em,” Daryl guesses darkly.

Pestilence blinks in confusion. “I don’t kill, that’s not within my power,” he says, all wide-eyed innocence like he truly believes what he’s saying. “The looters came many times and I didn’t kill a single one of them.”

“Made them sick, then,” Daryl says. “That what yer barrier do? Gives people some nasty infection?”

“Yes,” Pestilence admits, nodding his head. “I made sure it didn’t spread wide, though. An epidemic wouldn’t be conductive to my plans at this time.”   
“You know, I think I really should be a part of this conversation,” Rick grumbles, pressing himself a little against Daryl’s wings like he wants to part them and come forward. 

“You can’t. Yer not wearin’ pants,” Daryl tells him reasonably, which at least makes Rick pause in his attempts for a moment as he considers the pros and cons of revealing himself to a potentially dangerous Horseman of the Apocalypse without any clothes.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Pestilence says, shrugging. “And my gracious host here might appreciate the view. He deserves a reward for being most accommodating.”

“What’d ya give the sorry motherfucker so you coulda possessed him?” Daryl asks. He squints suspiciously. Everyone has their limitations, even the Horsemen. Pestilence can only use a mortal vessel when the host’s body is sick. It doesn’t have to be dying from some awful shit, a damn cold is enough for the fucker to be happy like a swine in mud, but this mortal vessel dude doesn’t look like he’s sick at all. Nose ain’t even runny. No paleness, no rashes, nothing suspicious that Daryl wouldn’t want to expose Rick to.

“It was a wonderful opportunity,” Pestilence replies with a grin. “I found this young man sitting alone in the woods, swearing and crying in succession, and he told me to back away because he got bit. Imagine that! I never saw this unnatural infection from up close before, so I thought, why not see it from all the way inside? I offered the young man a deal. He would let me use his body so I could run a few errands. In return, I would keep him alive as long as it takes me to find a way to cure him.”

“And did you?” Rick asks curiously, peeking out from behind Daryl’s wings. Apparently, he decided his state of undress is less important than the subject at hand.

Pestilence nods, a smug expression on his face. “Admittedly, the cure is very limited for the time being, and cannot be administered to the population at large. I only had this vessel as a test subject, after all. Surprisingly, none of the mortals I encountered were eager to volunteer, so all I had was my host.”

“But you succeeded?” Rick inquires. Daryl looks back at him, eyes narrowed, and shakes his head in what he hopes is a very clear warning:  _ don’t you dare show him the goods. They’re  _ ** _mine_ ** .

“Eventually, yes,” Pestilence says. “It took a hundred seventy-three hours after the initial application of the medicine for all traces of illness to be fully eliminated from my gracious host’s body. When I leave him soon, he will be able to move on with his life without further interruption from this most diabolical disease.”

Rick catches the implication immediately. “As in, your cure gave him an immunity?” He makes sure, and okay, Daryl can’t really be mad at him for latching on to the topic because… well. For someone so clearly suicidal, with the self-preservation instinct of a damn pizza box, Rick Grimes is very bent on rescuing everyone else. Saving the world. Making everything okay. And this shit Pestilence is spouting? Sounds very much like the way to accomplish just that.

Still, Daryl would rather be getting laid already instead of solving the walker problem. The world’s been fucked for a few good years. Can’t it wait just a little bit more, until Daryl’s very thoroughly fucked too?

“It can serve as both a fast-acting antibiotic, and a preventive inoculation,” Pestilence reveals, and there is pride in his strangely dissonant voice. “It needn’t be repeated in the future. One dose is more than enough for a human being. Expiry date should not be a problem either: mortal beings live for less than three hundred years, if I recall correctly?”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees meekly. “Yeah, we do.”

But then his resolve hardens and Daryl can almost sense the change. There behind him, naked beneath the cover of bright angelic feathers, is the Rick Grimes who kept his family alive throughout the worst kinds of ordeals with nothing more but pure determination. This Rick Grimes is not beneath ripping out a man’s throat if his loved ones are threatened. This Rick Grimes will murder a man in cold blood if he decides there is no other choice. This Rick Grimes doesn’t really need Daryl’s protection anymore, because he went through literal Hell on Earth to become what he needed to be: a God-damn fucking angel of vengeance himself.

And fuck if the thought of Rick like this doesn’t make Daryl all hot and bothered.

“What do you want in exchange for this cure?” Rick asks boldly, voice firm and steady, like he doesn’t even consider he might not have anything to offer a being as abstract as a literal Horseman of the Apocalypse.

Pestilence, apparently, hasn’t considered that either, because he brightens at Rick’s question as though he was waiting for it. “Well, that’s actually the easy part,” he says, beaming. “I will give you the recipe for the cure and all the required ingredients to heal, let’s say, the entire population of this puny world,” he offers. “In return, Daryl will do as he was asked and  _ stop this bullshit _ . That petty little demon, making me look bad with this unnatural, fucked-up walker disease. And how! Like I would ever get involved with the Apocalypse! Me! What else? I’ve got no time to play around with the End Times. So many fascinating new diseases, so much  _ fun  _ I could be having all over the known and unknown universes. I never wanted to be a Horseman, you know? I don’t even  _ like _ horses.”

Daryl blinks. Rick does, too. Daryl knows because he looks behind his shoulder, just to make sure Rick’s still there. It’s a habit. He doesn’t like being in front of Rick. Following the man is better. If Rick’s in front of him, Daryl can see him and make sure there’s no immediate danger looming over him and, let’s be real, there’s  _ always  _ some kind of immediate danger awaiting Rick-fucking-living-nightmare-Grimes. 

“So,” Pestilence says, calm again, apparently over his outburst. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” Rick replies quickly, and only then does he send Daryl an apologetic look. Like he’s really sorry for making this decision without consulting him, even though it’s Daryl’s participation that’s required for anything to work at all. It’s fine though. Daryl doesn’t mind Rick deciding for him. He exists for Rick, doesn’t he? 

Free will has its limitations apparently, because for Daryl, there’s no way he could ever go against Rick in anything. So maybe he doesn’t really have free will. Maybe he just replaced one Absolute with another. He’s good at this blasphemy thing after all.

“Great. Amazing,” Pestilence announces. He walks towards them, holds out his hand. “We need to shake on it. Not you, Daryl,” he says and motions to the side with his head; Daryl finds himself moved out of the way before he can blink. He growls dangerously when he sees Pestilence approach Rick, but Rick gives him a steady, calming look.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says.

Daryl melts a little at the pet name even though now is  _ so _ not the time.

Pestilence grins. “Are we in agreement, Rick Grimes?” He asks.

Rick takes his hand in a firm hold, shakes it. “We have a deal, Pestilence.”

And then he pales, groans painfully, and collapses.

Panic rises in Daryl and he throws himself at the two, grabs Pestilence by the neck at the same time as he attempts to check Rick’s pulse with his other hand. The man is still warm, but he would still be warm for minutes after death, so that doesn’t really mean anything. Pestilence doesn’t fight Daryl’s grip at all; he looks upon Daryl with mild curiosity in his eyes.

“He’s not dead,” he says, voice made wheezy by the hand wrapped around his throat. “Not even hurt. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize your cooperation, little brother.” 

“Maybe yer a fuckin’ idiot,” Daryl hisses, but he hesitates. 

Pestilence rolls his eyes. “Yes, that is a possibility,” he says in a tone which clearly indicates he thinks of the two of them, Daryl’s the idiot. “Your adorable boyfriend’s going to be fine. More than fine, actually. I threw in a little bonus, cured him, gave him immunity to this demonic disease. I also extended it to your adorable mortal family, as a gesture of goodwill,” he explains. “I used him as the conduit, tapped into his connection with the others you two care about. That’s why he collapsed. Mortals aren’t built for that amount of celestial energy flowing through them.”

“But he’ll be fine,” Daryl mutters, and lets go of Pestilence. 

The thing about the spiritual energy associated with the Upstairs is that it may be immense, but it is also designed in such a way that humans cannot be harmed by it. If anything, it nurtures them whenever they happen to come into contact with it. That’s why Daryl’s body has been practically indestructible since the day he became one entity instead of two: the mortal flesh feeds off the infinite power of the celestial spirit. It’s sort of like an indepletable battery. 

Grumbling under his breath about idiots touching damn Horsemen of the Apocalypse like they were just shaking hands with an insurance agent, Daryl kneels next to Rick’s crumpled form and gently picks him up to move him to the bed. He sighs and wills his wings away. They won’t be needed any time soon. Daryl can’t help but think the mood’s been thoroughly ruined. He’s as likely to get laid as the whole world is to spontaneously combust, which is, not likely at all. Well, at least not today. But he can’t really bring himself to fault Rick or even be angry. Frustrated, yes, but not angry.

He loves Rick, all of him, his everything, and that means he also loves Rick’s inane savior complex. 

“You’re an interesting one, little brother,” Pestilence says. “One day, I’ll try to devote more time to your particular case in my studies.”

“Please don’t,” Daryl mutters, but doesn’t look up at the Horseman. He pulls the covers over Rick’s naked body, making sure the man is warm and comfortable. He’s not having Rick get a cold now that he’s apparently safe from turning into a walker. Knowing Rick’s propensity for getting himself into life-threatening shit, he’d actually manage to catch the one strain of cold that could kill him.

“Don’t what?” Asks Pestilence, but not. Daryl shakes his head and glances in the direction of the man freed from the celestial Scientist possessing his body. Pestilence is gone, so’s the lab coat on top of the mortal vessel’s leather duster, and the blue-eyed man looks incredibly confused.

Daryl says, “Never mind. Yer saved, ain’t gonna turn, now off ya go. Wherever you gotta be.”

“See, I would,” the man assures him. He sounds apologetic. Sad. Slightly panicked, too. “Thing is, I was bitten. Don’t remember much afterwards, but this I remember, so. I don’t suppose you’d do me a favor and shoot me?”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “He really took ya over fully, huh?” He asks, shaking his head. “Don’cha worry ‘bout the bite. Yer cured. Now scram.”

“What do you mean, I’m cured?” The man asks, incredulous. “There’s no cure. What do you take me for? Think I’m stupid? What the hell, man, you want me to turn or something? That get you happy? Huh?”

“God yer annoyin’,” Daryl announces. “You been bit three weeks ago, more a’ less. Gots yerself possessed by Pestilence. As in, Horseman of the Apocalypse, the Scientist, that Pestilence. Dude promised to cure ya in return, you served yer purpose, so yer cured, the end.”

“... Horseman of the Apocalypse,” the man repeats dubiously. “Right. Next thing you tell me is gonna be you’re one of them too?”

“Nope,” Daryl says, “am just a regular guardian angel, me. Man, if yer not goin’ to fuck off, why don’cha be useful? Bring me a glass of water from downstairs. Rick’s gonna need some when he wakes up.”

The man frowns, but does as he’s asked. He heads downstairs and then returns with a glass filled with tap water, handing it to Daryl like he’s surprised the plumbing in the house they’re in is still intact. Like the fucker who made sure it was intact hadn’t literally been inhabiting his body up until some ten minutes ago. It makes sense, though, that the guy has no memory of being a meatsuit for Pestilence. The shit going through the mind of a being as twisted as the Scientist would probably fuck up even the toughest human and, frankly, this one doesn’t look quite so tough at all.

“So, who are you?” The man asks, looking from Daryl to Rick’s sleeping form, then back to Daryl again. He’s wearing a curious expression which is pretty similar to what he looked like when Pestilence was using him as a vessel. 

“Name’s Daryl,” Daryl tells him, “this is my Rick… I mean, the leader of our community, Rick Grimes. We been on a date - ugh, on a  _ supply run _ , when we gots interrupted by some dumb asshole wearin’ a leather coat in summer. Meanin’ you if yer wonderin’.”

“It serves as armor, I’ll have you know,” the man argues, intent on defending his strange fashion choices. “Didn’t do shit when one of those undead bastards took a chunk off my neck, though,” he adds darkly.

Daryl gives the man’s neck a passing glance. “Ain’t see nothin’ missin’,” he says. “There’s a mirror behind you. Check out for yerself.”

The man does just that, he turns around and immediately inspects where he expects to see the wound. His face looks downright comical when he turns again to stare at Daryl in utter shock, clutching the side of his neck with his fingers, searching for the non-existent bite mark. 

“It was here!” He exclaims. “I was bit, I know I was, and it was here! What the fuck did you do, huh? What did you do to me?”

“Dude, chill,” Daryl says, rolling his eyes yet again at the man’s dramatics. He’s starting to wonder if it wouldn’t be best to just leave this loud, irritating stranger to his own devices. He’s got no duty towards him, no ties binding him to Pestilence’s discarded vessel. 

“How am I supposed to chill? I remember being bit, then nothing, then I wake up here and some random, dangerous-looking guy’s saying I’m healed, spouting bullshit about the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and there’s a working plumbing system, and there is no bite on me, and  _ how am I supposed to chill _ ?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Forgot the bit ‘bout me bein’ guardian angel,” he reminds the man in a mock-friendly tone. And without waiting for a reaction, he adds, “Here, let me show ya,” and lets his wings unfurl and solidify again. 

Daryl has to give it to the guy, he does his best not to start screaming like a little girl. He just blanches and his eyes widen, and his jaw drops. He tries to say something, but all that comes out is a sort of a weak whimper. This state lasts for about three minutes before the man drops to his knees, claps his hands together and starts babbling frantically. 

It takes a moment for Daryl to recognize a popular prayer -  _ Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, Thy kingdom come _ \- and he scoffs, interrupting the recitation.

“Don’cha pray at me, asshole!” He demands, glaring. “Fuck’s sake, man. ‘s not like He’s even listenin’, so why the fuck should I?”

The man stares at him.

“Yeah, angels cuss. Deal with it,” Daryl demands. 

More staring.

“This shit’s why I don’t tell other people,” Daryl grumbles and then turns his attention to Rick, letting his wings fold and become immaterial again. He looks down at the sleeping man. His Rick, his wonderful, dumb nightmare of a ward who didn’t question Daryl’s nature for even a moment. Who didn’t try praying at him and certainly didn’t seem to cower before his divine nature or some shit. Whose reaction to Daryl’s wings was to proclaim them  _ sexy _ . 

Rick is fucking special and Daryl loves him so fucking much.

“... so you’re really an angel,” Pestilence’s ex-vessel says after a moment of silence. He sounds calmer. Less hysterical than when he was praying, at least, and that’s something Daryl can work with. “And this - it’s the Apocalypse? Is that why there’s an angel and a… a Horseman, and-”

“‘s not the Apocalypse,” Daryl interrupts, “just a demon stirrin’ shit. Ain’t your concern anyways. Nothin’ here is, ‘sides that yer cured. You can go home to whatever shithole y’all crawled out of, get drunk an’ forget ya ever seen me, ‘kay?”

“But… but the Horseman!” The man protests.

“Hoss is gone already, man, follow his fuckin’ example!”

“Uhhh… D’you need to be shouting, darlin’?” Rick asks from the bed, voice sleepy and somewhat hoarse. Daryl looks down at him and notices the man’s eyes are still closed, but his eyebrows are knitting together in the most adorable frown.

“Sorry,” Daryl murmurs, sheepish as he leans down and kisses Rick’s forehead. It’s not exactly what he wants to be kissing - and damn, he really  _ is  _ horny, if he’s still capable of thinking raunchy thoughts even now - but they’ve got an audience he’s got no intention of entertaining right now. 

“‘s forgiven, baby, don’t worry,” Rick assures him and exhales in a soft sigh. “Bed’s comfy. Why don’t you join me? Can cuddle ‘n maybe I can blow you later...”

Daryl licks his lips. “Gotta get rid of that clown first,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss Rick again, on the mouth this time, but briefly, chastely. As chastely as the two of them can manage, at least, which, well, it’s not that chaste. Would warrant a PG-thirteen rating, at least, if they were in a movie. 

Pestilence’s unfortunate ex-vessel makes a weird noise. Daryl breaks the kiss and throws a glare behind his shoulder where the man is still standing, staring at the two of them like a very confused, very irritating… something. Thing that does the staring. Whatever, Daryl’s not exactly a poet, he doesn’t need to know words and comparisons and shit. The point is, the guy is still there and while he’s there, Daryl can’t commence with the cuddling and other things with his Rick. Obviously, it’s time to let the fucker know in no uncertain terms that he’s overstaying his welcome.

“Dude, can’t you like, go get lost already? Don’cha see we’re sorta busy?”

“Can stay, long as he’s quiet,” Rick murmurs lazily, pulling insistently on Daryl’s arm. Well, Daryl already established earlier that he can’t deny Rick anything, so he lets himself be pulled into his ward’s warm embrace. He still offers the vessel dude his best, most terrifying glare.

The man looks away and speaks, words falling from his mouth in a quick succession suggesting he doesn’t entirely think them through: “I’ll… stay downstairs, okay? Umm. Got so many questions, man. For later. I won’t be disturbing you, I promise! I’ll be quiet as a mouse. I’ll… watch for the dead ones for you, I’ll be useful. Just holler if you need me! Name’s Paul, Paul Rovia, but my friends call me Jesus. You can call me Jesus. You can call me anything you want!” 

And then he’s gone, and Daryl groans as he pushes his face against the juncture between Rick’s shoulder and neck, inhaling the calming scent of Rick’s skin. He can feel Rick’s body start shaking in silent laughter, and he can’t help but laugh softly, too, as the implications of the absurdity of the whole situation sink in:

They were literally interrupted by a guy named Jesus.

_ Unbe- _ fucking- _ lievable. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sense of humor is obviously lacking, which is why I'm warning you guys: it's not about to get any better ;)


	4. Never herd of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, this chapter's been giving me attitude and I finally rewrote it from scratch today. Should be able to update once a week from now on. I tentatively marked it as 8 chapters, but I can't be sure since it's not finished yet.

When Rick was a kid, some seven, maybe eight years old, he got into this strange habit of picking up strays. It started out innocently enough, with a puppy he found in the park. Over the years, the puppy was followed by a whole bunch of cats, dogs, guinea pigs, injured baby birds, squirrels, hedgehogs. A horse, on one notable occasion. Rick's parents were proud of their son's compassion and empathy towards animals in need, even if it was inconvenient for them more often than not. Daryl-the-angel was also very proud of all the good his ward was doing.

Thing is, that admirable, adorable habit never went away, but it's considerably less cute when Rick decides to take Jesus home with them. 

“You said we needed to recruit new faces,” Rick points out when Daryl makes a very reasonable noise of protest at the prospect of having Pestilence’s ex-vessel around any longer than necessary. 

“And y’all said recruitment’s dangerous,” Daryl reminds him. He’s not pouting because angels of the Lord don’t pout. Rick’s arms around him feel nice and warm, and Daryl is pretty sure he shouldn’t be forced to think about some random vagrant waiting on them downstairs. He should be kissing his annoying ward. Maybe doing other things to him. Sexier things. 

“Well, that guy won’t cause trouble,” Rick says, sounding convinced. “He’s been through a lot of shit recently. We should be charitable, right? C’mon, darlin’, you’re an angel. Where’s your mercy?”

“Fuck mercy,” Daryl mutters. “Dude’s gotten himself bit in the first place. Sounds useless to me.”

“Nobody’s useless,” Rick admonishes him, and Daryl has the good grace to feel ashamed of himself. Because Rick’s right, everybody has some sort of value. They can’t go judging a person only by their ability to avoid getting bit. If he were to look at the family through the same filter, then… well, at least half of them would be deemed useless, too, including Lil’ Asskicker. 

And Daryl would literally kill Satan himself for Lil’ Asskicker if he had to.

“Besides, with the whole _ stopping the apocalypse _ business, don’t you think the more people we have on board, the better?” Rick asks, attempting to be the voice of reason. It’s sort of funny when the craziest, most suicidal son-of-a-bitch in the neighborhood is trying to be reasonable, but hell, that’s a thing that happens with Rick mother-fucking Grimes. 

“Can he like, smell demons? Nah? Then I ain’t see much use for him,” Daryl decides, shrugging his shoulders so hard his joints pop. The whole trip was supposed to be relaxing, damn it. Instead, it’s well on its way to giving Daryl anxiety. 

“Guess we gotta take him along,” he sighs, giving in. It’s hard not to when Rick’s looking at him with those baby blues of his. Rick’s eyes are Daryl’s ultimate weakness. He’s pretty sure if he’s ever going to perish in some way an angel actually can perish, those eyes will be to blame.

Rick smiles, then rolls on top of Daryl, settling comfortably with his thighs between Daryl’s legs. It gives Daryl the chance to feel how unmistakably satisfied the man is with the fact that he won the inane argument. Or maybe he’s simply as turned on by Daryl as Daryl is by him, constantly, regardless of the situation. Because Daryl is. Turned on. Always, when Rick’s concerned, though it didn’t use to be on the forefront of his concerns before that fateful blowjob in the barn. 

Daryl’s thoughts are cut short when Rick’s mouth is on him, Rick’s tongue parting his lips to push in and taste. There’s always something hungry in the way Rick kisses him, like he’s starved for it, like he’s worried if he doesn’t take everything at once, he’ll have to go without. It’s impossible. There isn’t a thing in existence that would make Daryl withhold his kisses from Rick now that he’s finally able to give them. He wants to kiss Rick all the time, to hold him and touch him, and if it’s a sin then so be it, he’s perfectly willing to take the fall for it. Not that there’s anyone Upstairs with the right to judge him. 

“I could still fuck you real quick,” Rick offers softly, the words spoken breathily against Daryl’s mouth, neither of them willing to break apart just yet.

“Fuck, yeah, please,” Daryl begs, thrusting his hips up to indicate his complete willingness to go for it. He’s not so sure about _ real quick_, but he’s ready to take what he can get. He understands that Rick wants to rush back to the Safe Zone to the family, to tell them all about their newfound immunity from walker bites and possibly to engage them all in the quest for stopping the world ending. That he’s willing to squeeze in a bit of fun before they have to go is very nice of him, Daryl decides and he starts to remove his shirt to make the whole process a bit faster. It’s not that he’s impatient… well, yeah, okay, he’s _ way past impatient, _ but that’s not why. He’s just saving time. Every second counts.

“When it’s all said and done,” Rick says in a whisper pressed into the skin at Daryl’s shoulder, “I’m gonna spread you out in my bed and lick every last inch of you. Gonna start with your arms. Nobody should be allowed to have arms like these,” he murmurs, but contrary to the words, the appreciation is clearly evident in the way his voice dips low. 

“‘m gonna let ya do anythin’,” Daryl assures him and licks his lips, trying to stay in the moment instead of anticipating what will happen in the future. 

Rick chuckles darkly. “Oh, be careful with such promises,” he warns playfully. It’s impossible to miss how wide his pupils have dilated, darkening his beautiful eyes in an obvious sign of arousal. “You give me too much freedom, who knows what I’ll decide to do with ya…”

He leans in and bites down at the soft skin of Daryl’s neck, just above his collarbone. His teeth are too blunt to break skin, but Daryl can already tell it’s going to leave a bruise; he could heal it, of course, but he doesn’t even consider it. The thought of having a visible mark left by Rick, proclaiming Daryl as his property, is way too hot to do anything about it.

“Fuck,” Daryl says and his hips jerk forward of their own accord. He’s already so hard it’s bordering on painful and if Rick doesn’t hurry up and fuck him, he’s going to actually die. 

Rick goes for his pants, unbuttoning them as fast as he can, and then finally his hands brush over Daryl’s sensitive erection. The touch is only fleeting, and Rick kisses him when Daryl groans-

“Guys, I really didn’t wanna interrupt you again,” Jesus says timidly from the general direction of the doorway. 

Daryl growls and throws a glare his way above Rick’s shoulder. “Fuck off,” he snaps.

“I mean, I could, but there’s a huge-ass herd coming this way… Thought you guys should know,” the damn cock-blocking son-of-a-bitch announces.

Daryl frowns. Wasn’t the area supposed to be sealed off, protected by some measure of Pestilence’s weird-ass mojo? Unless the bastard decided to give Daryl a kick on the ass to send him on his way which, admittedly, sounds a lot like Pestilence alright. Still, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Or, well, it could’ve if Paul-slash-Jesus barged in on some advanced, uhhh, intimacy. So maybe it’s not that bad. Just. Very bad. 

Fuck, Daryl hates this entire fucking world. 

“I’ll have you in my bedroom later,” Rick promises him in a soft whisper and pulls away. The look he gives Daryl as he starts getting dressed is smoldering and should be banned as a health hazard. Because it would definitely give Daryl a heart attack if he were mortal.

They get themselves all ready to go surprisingly fast, considering. Daryl grabs his duffel bag and the crossbow, then follows Rick downstairs where they join Paul at the door. Somewhat begrudgingly, Daryl offers the man one of his backup hunting knives because it turns out he’s unarmed. 

“Ya better return it cleaned an’ sharpened later,” he huffs. 

Jesus nods, averting his eyes like he’s still not used to looking directly at an angel. It’s possibly going to be a problem in the future, if the guy even survives to see any kind of future at all. Like, Daryl’s priority is Rick. Even if they’re overrun by a herd of literal thousands, so be it, Daryl _ has _the means to keep Rick safe. Forbidden, ill-advised means which would likely paint a target on his back for every potential - albeit unlikely - passerby from Upstairs, but whatever. This dedication extends to the family, too; there is almost nothing Daryl wouldn’t do for Carl or Lil’ Asskicker, or Michonne, Carol, Beth, Maggie, all the others. But this Jesus dude? He’s a stranger. If he can’t take care of himself, tough luck. Daryl’s not going to go out of his way to save him when they’re in the fray.

Turns out, though, that he doesn’t need to, because Paul-known-as-Jesus is actually sort of a badass. His skill with the knife might not be up to Daryl’s standards, but he more than makes up for it with his hand-to-hand combat affinity. He’s like some sort of white Bruce Lee or something, only deadlier. Daryl doesn’t really have the time to look at him as he cuts through the herd to clear the way out to the car for Rick - this is one of the only situations when he outright refuses to be the one to follow and instead has Rick shielded from the sides with wings which are very much invisible, but just as material as a brick wall; still, he sees the man’s movements with the corner of his eye from time to time, and what can he say: he can appreciate a good fighter in these difficult times.

They make it to the truck and get in, all three of them. Daryl drives because first of all, between him and Rick he’s the better driver who doesn’t get distracted from the task at hand by being horny and second, they don’t really have the time to shuffle around and Daryl’s sort of ended up in the driver’s seat in their rush to get inside. 

He looks up into the sky - or, well, at the roof of the car, but whatever - and thinks of a quick prayer; he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to, he’s pretty sure it’s about just as effective as if he danced naked in the moonlight chanting in long-dead languages, as long as he thought of the Guy Upstairs while doing it. Still, Daryl Dixon was raised in something vaguely resembling Christian tradition, so it’s easier for him now to base his one-sided heavenly communication on something familiar. Words like “Glory be to the Father, etcetera etcetera, I kinda need some time to get the fuck outta here so if y’all could like, _ not _punish me later for all this miracle shit I been doin’ lately, that’d be great” would hardly count as a prayer in the church Daryl Dixon had to attend as a kid, and angel-Daryl probably wouldn’t have thought to pray this way either, but it works alright; for a brief moment, time stops around the truck. It’s only for the duration of a few very confused breaths from both Rick and Paul, but it’s more than enough to put some distance between the truck and the herd. 

“What the fuck did you do?” Rick asks in what sounds a little like breathless, awe-struck disbelief. Daryl doesn’t look at him because he’s pretty sure looking at Rick right now would lead to other, less appropriate things. He has to resist the temptation. At home. Rick’s going to fuck him at home. He promised.

“Did you just stop time?” Paul inquires, and he sounds similarly astounded. 

“Yea, shut up,” Daryl replies casually. “Don’cha talk ‘bout it too loud, may draw attention of somethin’ y’all don’ wan’cha be too attentive.”

There are, in fact, rules and conditions that apply to the use of various angelic powers of miracle™. Daryl doesn’t think they’re especially relevant nowadays, but he doesn’t want to risk incurring someone’s wrath. It’s enough that he’s being haunted by the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. If some dumb feather-for-brains type from Upstairs caught wind of what Daryl’s been doing down here, there’s a tiny risk they could take offense. So it’s better not to say anything about it out loud. Well… not in front of people other than Rick; it’s other people and their still existing connections to their guardian angels that might be a problem. 

“Ain’t gonna talk ‘bout it, so you shouldn’t either,” he grumbles, hoping that settles it. Neither of the men say anything, so Daryl decides the matter is closed and hits the acceleration. The sooner they make it to Alexandria, the sooner he can get thoroughly ravished by Rick.

… which, well, doesn’t happen for a long time yet.

“The strangest thing happened on the run today,” Glenn tells them once they’re back behind the walls and everyone is introduced to Paul-also-known-as-Jesus. To Daryl’s mild irritation, the man is readily accepted by the family and quickly promised a place of his own.

Glenn’s words sound ominous, though.

“We were surrounded by a herd, in the worst scenario you can imagine, stuck in a small room with no way out. I was with Tara, we were separated from the rest of the group. Suddenly, three of the geeks were on me and I thought I was a goner, I really did-”

Oh. Of course.

“Lemme guess. Suddenly they’s gone an’ yer back on yer feet, an’ the herd’s nowhere in sight?” Daryl supplies, then sighs when Glenn frowns and nods. “Okay, seems I really owe everyone an explanation,” he mutters, looking to the side at Rick. 

“Are you alright telling them?” Rick asks softly. “Won’t you get in trouble for that?”

Daryl shakes his head, smiling a little at how protective his ward is of him. Rick really makes for prime guardian angel material himself. They can guard each other. “Nah, ‘s alright. Death’s the one involved ‘em all first, ‘s only fair I explain the fuck’s happenin’. If… it’s alright with you?”

“Great, so we’re listening,” Michonne says, looking at Daryl expectantly.

And it’s really not easy to explain to the family how he’s been an actual angel all along, but hid it from them because of reasons. He supposes it would be harder still if not for Rick’s support; the man’s hand is warm as it clutches Daryl’s own, offering calm and silent reassurance as Daryl tells them everything from the beginning.

Well. Not everything. He doesn’t even know of any beginnings other than when Rick Grimes was assigned to be his ward, long before the man was born, long before even his parents were anything more than a vague concept on the map of the future. Time… doesn’t really work Upstairs like it does in this world. It’s more of a closed stream which can be delved into at any point. But simultaneously, it’s infinite, with no clear starting point and without a defined ending, ever-changing, and to be honest, okay, there are no words in human languages that can accurately describe how the angels see time. 

So Daryl has to stick to simpler facts.

“So what it all means is, basically, y’all gonna be practically immortal for the time bein’,” he concludes his story about angelic mergers and petulant Horsemen. 

“He’s telling the truth,” Jesus supplies, addressing the understandably sceptical-looking people Daryl likes to call his family. He’s never had so many dubious faces staring at him like he lost his mind at the same time. It’s unpleasant.

“He’s got wings, I’ve seen them,” Jesus adds, and Daryl rolls his eyes before unfurling his wings, making them visible.

They barely fit inside the living room in the downstairs level of Rick’s house, but whatever. They’ve been through a lot of uncomfortable shit today already, some additionally crumpled metaphysical feathers aren’t going to make a difference. 

People are silent for all of two minutes before they all start talking and asking questions at once. Daryl spends the better part of the evening - when has it become evening anyway? - answering and explaining and trying not to divulge too much classified information while also attempting not to hide shit from his family. Carol is the only one who takes it more or less in stride, which is not surprising since she’s always had a deeper understanding of Daryl’s personality than the others.

“I’ve been unpacking your duffel bag after runs for years now, Pookie,” she says, deadpan. “I thought you were a magician, but really, the whole _ angel _ thing suits you much better.”

“Wings,” Eugene adds, like he only just made the connection. “Your vest with the embroidered angel wings must have been a subconscious, likely involuntary attempt to come clean about your celestial provenance. Indeed, should we have known that divine beings were walking among us, so to speak, I believe any of us would have made the connection and-”

“Shut up, Eugene,” Rosita snaps without her usual conviction. She looks at Daryl with a measure of suspicion. “So you’ve been an angel this whole time, but you couldn’t have done anything to _ help? _” She asks, and yeah, Daryl gets why she’s angry. Like every single one of them, she’s been through a lot before the family found their way to Alexandria. It’s understandable that she blames Daryl for doing nothing to ease their hardships just a bit.

Thing is, before he accidentally revealed his nonhuman identity to Rick, Daryl really didn’t know that nobody Up There kept track of anymore. He suspected, but he wasn’t sure and didn’t want to risk it in case his annoying celestial siblings decided to come down and drag him back home kicking and screaming. In the weeks since, he’s learned nobody cares if he shouts it from the rooftops - as long as he doesn’t use too much divine power while he’s at it, probably.

“He’s been protecting us all the same, even if he didn’t say he was an angel,” Rick says, attempting to be the mediator in this conversation. 

It clearly doesn’t work. “You mean he’s been protecting you,” Abraham notes, giving Rick the stink-eye. “Explains a lot, too. Why all of us lost our families, but here y’all are, with both your kids fine and dandy. You guys carried a baby all the way up here from fucking Georgia! How’s that for a miracle, huh?”

Daryl frowns. “Listen now. How’d ya think miracles work, huh? ‘s not like I can just, snap my fingers an’ shit happens. Ain’t how it is. I gotta pray for shit to work, same as y’all, an’ sometimes my prayers get me all the cosmic juice I need, sometimes they don’t. Thing is, man, I ain’t known ya! But those I known, I been workin’ my ass off to keep safe. Beth woulda died back in Atlanta, but I slowed back time an’ gots her outta the way of a fuckin’ bullet. Sophia was lost in them woods ‘round the farm, all well on her way to gettin’ bit. Ya think findin’ her was easy? I can’t fuckin’ protect everyone. I’m just one stubborn guardian angel decided to stay down here, okay? An’ I’m tryin’, but it ain’t my fault y’all had motherfuckin’ cowards for yers.”

Just as soon as the words leave Daryl’s mouth he knows he’s said too much, but he doesn’t care. He stomps out of the house without so much as a look towards the gathered people he’s been considering his family, and fuck, but the accusation that he’s been slacking hurts. Nobody can understand what it feels like for an angel to be as helpless as Daryl has been since the start of this fake-ass apocalypse thing. Killing walkers is easy, but the overwhelming amount of death that leads to the rise of walkers is not. Angels can feel when people die in the vicinity. To Daryl, it’s more of an echo than when he used to be two separate entities, and he supposes it’s another thing he can thank his Daryl Dixon half for, besides the bad grammar, squinty eyes and a lot of really unattractive scars. Since the day his two halves merged, he’s never let a single one of the group die if he could do anything about it. Yeah, so he killed Dale at the farm. He had to, he wasn’t there when the walker came and he’s got no healing powers that he could extend to others, save for perhaps Rick thanks to their connection. Then there was Lori, whose death was apparently an Inevitability, there was nothing anyone could’ve done - and no matter how much Daryl hates it, some deaths are like that, some humans have their lives cut short simply because there’s a Plan in place Upstairs that nobody understands but everyone has to adhere to. 

But beyond those two, nobody else died on Daryl’s watch. Nobody.

“You know they don’t really blame you,” Paul says, and Daryl hasn’t even noticed the man following him which means he really should stop seething and start paying attention. Some guardian angel he is. “They’re just uneasy because what you are, it just toppled their whole system of beliefs. C’mon, you think it was easy for me to accept? And I’ve been a Horseman’s vessel for a long time, you said.”

“‘s not the same,” Daryl mutters and pats down his pockets in search of a cigarette. Another thing courtesy of his Dixon heritage: a nicotine addiction. He makes for a piss-poor angel, really. No doubt they all think he sucks. 

Jesus watches him become increasingly agitates when his search yields no results, and finally offers him a pack of cigarettes that looks remarkably familiar. “Sorry, swiped it off you earlier. Habit. Felt like I haven’t smoked one in years, so…”

“Ya ever do that again, ain’t got no qualms ‘bout guttin’ you,” Daryl warns darkly. He picks a cigarette, pushes it past his lips and closes his eyes. A single word forms in his mind in terms of a prayer: _ Please_. The end of the cigarette ignites of its own accord and Daryl inhales with an exaggerated sigh of relief. 

Normally he’d feel guilty for wasting his angelic energy reservoirs - he doesn’t know if it’s in danger of running out or anything; but right now, all he feels is empty. 

“They’ll settle down,” Paul promises after a few moments of almost-comfortable silence. Admittedly, it’s only comfortable because Daryl sort-of forgets the man is there as he contemplates the world through the haze of cigarette smoke, but still. 

“They’re going to all talk it over and they’ll come around. And anyway, you’ve got your Rick. That’s your priority, isn’t it?”

It is, and Daryl frowns harder when he remembers he left Rick inside with the others, quite roughly retrieving his hand from his ward’s reassuring hold. Like a fucking ingrate. At this rate, any sort of intimacy between them is likely to only happen in Daryl’s thirsty imagination.

“Still don’t like ya,” he tells Paul, but he nods at him and gives him a look that he _ hopes _ conveys he’s sort-of grateful for the man’s attempt. He throws the cigarette to the ground, stubs it out with the sole of his shoe and returns to the house. 

He’s got to make it all work. There’s no time for hurt feelings and rising tempers. The world’s fucking ending. If Daryl can’t get his own Goddamn family to cooperate and get a grip so they can stop the Ultimate Showdown, then there’s no point to anything at all. And, fuck. He just really, really wants to get laid soon. Might as well get everything else out of the way to be able to get to it.

If he has to punch Abraham to get the whole shit kick-started, well. He's sure he can be forgiven. He had a _very _strange day today.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at most--curiously--blue--eyes.tumblr.com if you wanna chat~


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